Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
B ack in Nantucket with a hole in her heart and mysteries playing out in her head, Hilary agreed to dinner at her parents’ place. Anything was better than being alone tonight.
After the round of golf (which ended with Roland beating all of them by a lot more than Hilary wanted to admit), she’d called Dorothy’s Manhattan-based lawyer twice without an answer.
She realized that she wasn’t the top priority after the death of such a wealthy person.
There were probably family members to reach out to, including her daughters, Renée and Rachel.
Hilary wondered where on earth they were and why Dorothy hadn’t mentioned them.
As Hilary chopped red and yellow peppers for a dinner salad, Aria called.
Hilary answered, realizing she hadn’t heard from her in hours.
She’d told her to hang tight in Greenwich Village, but she hadn’t delivered on giving Aria any information about what to do next.
She imagined Aria was shivery and nervous, waiting around, unsure whether or not to unpack everything she’d brought to Manhattan.
“Hi!” Hilary said, her voice overzealous and high-pitched. She winced.
“Mom?” Aria did sound meek and strange. “Um, how are you?”
Estelle, Sam, and Charlie’s wife, Shawna, stopped what they were doing to turn and watch Hilary. Estelle had a spatula raised.
Hilary abandoned her peppers and her prying family and stepped out back, closing both the screen and glass doors to avoid their eavesdropping.
“I’m fine, honey. I’ve been worried about you, waiting around for answers from the lawyer, and killing time.
Your grandpa, grandma, aunt, and I played golf. ”
“Ew.” Aria laughed.
Hilary’s heart opened. At least Aria wasn’t too upset to crack a light joke. “I know.” She swallowed. “What’s going on up there? Are you going to meet back up with Gina tonight?” Hilary really didn’t want Aria to be alone.
Aria took a breath. “I don’t really know how to tell you this. But Dorothy’s daughter came over this afternoon, and she is not happy that I’m here.”
Hilary’s heart nearly exploded. “You’re kidding! Which one?”
“Her name is Renée,” Aria said, lowering her voice. “She stormed in and demanded to know what I was doing here. I felt like a criminal.”
“Did you show her the contract?” Hilary asked.
“Eventually, yeah. But she was crying so much,” Aria said. “It took a little while to figure out how to deal with each other. I think she wanted to come here and grieve alone.”
Hilary sat down on the porch sofa and crossed and uncrossed her ankles. Poor Aria , she thought. All Dorothy had wanted was to give her a little peace.
“Where are you now?” Hilary asked.
“I’m upstairs,” Aria said. “She says I can stay until you come and get me. Ha. So now I feel like I’m at a sleepover, calling my mom to come pick me up.”
Hilary remembered those long-ago days, how she’d looked forward to evenings all to herself and then received a late-night phone call from Aria’s friends’ homes, a little voice saying, Mom, I can’t sleep.
I want to be in my own bed . Hilary had broken land speed records to pick her up, of course, all the while wondering if Aria was too frightened to one day become an adult.
Hilary had been wrong to be afraid of that.
“I can come up tomorrow,” Hilary said. “Of course.”
“Thank you.” Aria groaned. “What a whirlwind. It’s hard to believe it’s already over.”
“You can stay in the city if you want to,” Hilary told her.
“Dorothy knew you needed a fresh start. We can research other clients. Consider our options.” All she wanted, of course, was for her daughter to return to her.
But she knew the black hole that awaited Aria should she come back to Nantucket so soon. Memories of Thaddeus were everywhere.
“I need a purpose, I guess,” Aria offered. “If I were in Manhattan all by myself, roaming around, waiting for something to happen, I might go a little crazy.”
Hilary chuckled. “You can’t give yourself permission to be lazy, can you?”
“It doesn’t seem like it.”
Hilary beamed with pride at her daughter’s good nature and love of hard work.
“You know what your grandparents mentioned today?” Hilary said offhandedly. “Some people believe that Dorothy killed her husband, Philip.”
“What?” Aria gasped.
“I know! I mean, think of that little old woman doing anything to anyone!” Hilary laughed. “I can’t imagine it.”
“Neither can I.” Aria was quiet for a moment. “But Renée said that her mother hated her.”
Hilary’s smile faltered. “Really?”
“I know. It’s weird. But I mean, we barely knew Dorothy, right? She spent twenty-five years in that estate by herself. Who knows what happened before then?”
Hilary’s thoughts ran rampant. All she wanted in the world was to sit with Dorothy Wagner and hear her stories, understand her. Hilary wanted to know why people thought Dorothy killed her husband. Why did her daughters think she hated them? Why did she hide herself away?
The following morning at half past seven, after sleeping soundly and cozily in her childhood bedroom with Samantha down the hall in hers, Hilary drove back to the house she’d raised Aria in, showered, packed an overnight bag, and took off for the ferry.
After she parked in the boat, she went to buy a cup of coffee at the upstairs kiosk and read the morning’s obituary. It was about Dorothy Wagner.
It was terribly short.
Dorothy Thompson Wagner (1940-2025)
Socialite and wife of the late stock market titan Philip Wagner, Dorothy (Thompson) Wagner passed away at the age of eighty-five in her estate on Nantucket Island.
For decades, she and her husband lived a decadent life of European travel, sailing adventures, and elite Manhattan parties.
She will be missed by all who really knew her, of which there were few.
Memorial donations can be sent to Big Brothers Big Sisters Charity.
Hilary gaped at the obituary and reread it, searching for more clues about a woman who, it seemed, was defined only by the man she’d married, a man who’d cheated on her almost continually until the death she was so often accused of causing.
Hilary felt an ache, knowing that so few people had “really known” Dorothy.
She wasn’t sure she could count herself among them, given the fact that she’d only spent a little more than a week with her.
But she’d felt such tenderness and compassion in the older woman.
How could any of this be happening?
After the ferry, Hilary drove the five-ish hours all the way to Manhattan, updating Aria on her location as she went.
When she pulled into Greenwich Village and managed to slip into a recently abandoned parking spot, the vacating SUV shuttling down the street, she took a breath, wondering if she was about to meet one of Dorothy Wagner’s mysterious daughters.
Why hadn’t they been mentioned in the obituary?
It was standard, even if all relevant family members weren’t exactly on perfect terms.
For example, if Sam and Hilary had never made up, Hilary would have wanted Sam included in her obituary. It wouldn’t have been right without.
Before Hilary had a chance to ring the bell, Aria tore open the door, as though she’d been waiting and watching from the front window.
Her eyes were slightly panicked and googly, and there were two packed suitcases by her feet.
She threw her arms around Hilary, whispering, “Thanks for getting here so soon.”
Hilary had the sense that Aria wanted to escape the brownstone as soon as possible.
But Hilary was too curious to run away. Making an excuse about needing to use the bathroom, she stepped into the foyer and closed the door behind her, assessing the remarkably old decor and how much it really did need that update Aria had been hired for.
She entered the kitchen, feeling her daughter’s eyes on her back, and poured herself a glass of water, craning her ears to hear anyone else in the townhouse.
“She hasn’t come out of her room,” Aria murmured.
Hilary nodded. “I want to talk to her.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Aria said timidly. “She thinks her mother hated her, and she thinks her mother really liked you. You were there when she died, and that’s heavy, you know? You’re her enemy, maybe.”
Hilary hesitated. The last thing she wanted was for Dorothy’s daughter to live the rest of her life thinking Dorothy had replaced her with someone else. “I have to clear the air, then,” she said. “I don’t want any bad blood.”
“You don’t!” Aria cried. “Maybe it’s best to leave her alone?”
But before Hilary could make up her mind, there was a creak on the top stair. The hairs on her arms stood on end, proof of her fright.
There were too many mysteries at play here. Hilary hadn’t reckoned for any of this when she’d agreed to what she’d thought was a typical interior design gig.
The woman who entered the kitchen looked worse for wear.
It was clear Renée hadn’t washed her face last night, and that she’d spent the majority of the past few hours crying.
She wore a big nightdress, a lacy thing from another decade that had obviously belonged to Dorothy ( or one of Philip’s mistresses , Hilary thought darkly).
Renée stood in a haze in the doorway, eyes on Hilary.
And then she said, “I just got off the phone with my mother’s lawyer. ”
“Oh?” Hilary pressed her hands to the counter and braced herself.
Why was Dorothy’s daughter updating her on Dorothy’s will?
Renée took a tentative step into the kitchen.
Although it was only three in the afternoon, she announced she needed a glass of wine and rummaged through the fridge to find a bottle of white.
Screwing up her face, she poured for herself and sipped.
She didn’t offer anything to Hilary and Aria, which was all right with Hilary.
Hilary wasn’t brave enough to ask what was going on.